He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. "Often. It doesn’t matter. Gerald crossed back to the window. “Don’t!” she begged. " Sheppard started to his feet. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. .
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